the conclusion of chapter ten

so when i'm copping a squat at a bar, picking the brains of the barkeeps so that i can finish a chapter ... sometimes really good stuff comes from that. one of them asked me not too long ago why reese digs isabel. and today, as i polished off the last of chapter ten, the answer came to me.

he makes her nervous. he's amused by this.

She was relieved when the menu for Star Trek came up. Chris Pine. Karl Urban. Even Simon Pegg, whom she normally thought of as idiotic and therefore undeserving of any notice, really. She liked his version of Scotty a lot, actually. So, there, there were three very good distractions. At least they should have been.

They were little more than figments of another’s imagination. And there was a very cute guy sitting in reasonably close proximity.

She tried to keep her attention focused on other things—the titles of the books on the shelves surrounding the television, the attractive physiques of the men on the screen, the patterns and colors of the tapestry of the chair upon which she sat, the way the colors in the rug complimented the stripes in the sofa.

Her mind flitted from one thing to the next. And anytime it settled on Reese, she fought to switch it to something else.

Oh, but he looked good today.

He looks good everyday.

He wore a long-sleeved, olive Henley tee-shirt and khaki cargo shorts. Every now and again, she caught the scent of his cologne.

He smelled good, too.

The times she’d catch him watching her would cause her to set her chair, a glider rocker, in motion.

She’d knit her brow as she worried over that. Her fingers played with the texture of the tapestry or the seams of her jeans. She’d sniff. She’d chew on her fingernails. She’d blush.

She really hated that she did that.

Once, when that had happened, she had watched amusement flicker across his face. His lips had twitched. She was certain of it.

When she’d emptied the bag of pretzels, which hadn’t taken that long as there was less than a third of the bag left to begin with, she shoved up off the chair and headed back into the kitchen.

He snagged her wrist, grinned at her. “Popcorn?”

“Ooh!” August exclaimed. She’d sat on the other end of the sofa, near the television. She kept her sight on the screen. “I forgot! Yeah, Isa. Popcorn. It’s in the large pantry, on the left. Sort of eye level. Bowls are in the drawer under the oven.”

Isabel stood motionless, her eyes on the hand that still held her wrist. His hold had tightened. Just barely. Enough that she noticed. Enough that it made her more nervous than she’d been seconds before.

She knew where the popcorn was. She had been to August’s house enough times that she didn’t need to be told where much of anything was. But instead of mouthing off a pithy retort, as she would normally have done, she could only stand there, marveling at the contrast of Reese’s tanned skin next to hers. At the contact.

She drew in a quick breath, brought her gaze to his. “Yep,” was all she could muster. To her dismay, it came out raspy. Too many cigarettes. Too much nervous energy.

With a gentle tug, she pulled her hand free, looked to Cate, whose brow was arched just slightly and whose eyes shifted from Reese to Isabel and back again. Isabel cleared her throat. “Drinks?”

Three voices called out for Cokes.

“Okay.” Isabel strolled—hopefully—into the kitchen, found the box of popcorn, jerked the wrapper off a package, tossed the bag in the microwave and slammed the door, then tossed the cellophane in the trash. Leaned against the wall, closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her waist.

It took her several minutes to settle down.

She almost burned the popcorn.

(c) twenty-eleven. jennifer k. griffin, otherwise known as c.c. this publication is the exclusive property of c.c. and is protected under the united states copyright act of nineteen seventy-six and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. the contents of this post, and any other c.c.-crafted picky post for that matter, may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without c.c.'s consent. all rights reserved. in other words, steal this, and i will follow you to the depths of hell and the edge of forever and kick your puny, thieving ass. thanks. :]

read about the rest of the gang here.

this was (sort of) a matlock project. learn about that here.